The Only One Missing

Chapter 1: 4918, Cherry Lane.

— And the next song that will be pleasing your ears today is the well-known The Chain by the magnificent Fleetwood Mac. A few interesting facts about the album Rumours, on the second side of which our guest is hiding: the album was released in 1977 and contains 11 tracks. The musicians used the recording studio as a place to sort out their relationships, since during the recording of the album all members of the band were going through breakups — two divorces and one relationship breakup. For example, the composition Go Your Own Way is Lindsey Buckingham's unflattering message to Stevie Nicks, while the song Dreams is her response. Recording the album took a full year, but it was definitely worth it: Rumours was awarded the Grammy for "Album of the Year" in 1978. The Chain is the only composition written by all five members of the band. It was stitched together from several demo tracks. It is also worth noting that since 1978, John McVie's bass solo from this track has annually opened Formula 1 broadcasts on BBC television. And now, finally, I invite you to enjoy this sports rock hit.

Through the crackle of the radio, a guitar suddenly cuts through — dry, slightly muted, as if it was recorded not in a studio but in a dim room with bare walls. The first chords sound cautious, almost lazy, with that slightly hoarse tone of old vinyl. There is this strange "emptiness" in them, the space between notes feels just as heavy as the sounds themselves. The strings ring softly, with a faint metallic bitterness, and the sound never quite fills the space completely — it leaves shadows behind. Each note stretches out, slowly settling like dust in still air, and for a moment it feels like it doesn't disappear at all, but simply hides somewhere nearby. There is something stubborn and quietly unsettling in these chords — they don't demand attention, but they don't let go either. And in the muted thump of the drums, someone's awakening heartbeat can be heard.

Listen to the wind blow, watch the sun rise.

He sees fireworks, bright lights, distant stars, music, guitar riffs and bass solos, someone's voice, someone's excited screams, someone's chthonic screams of terror, cries of joy, and cries of despair. But all of this cacophony falls silent just as quickly as it appears again, like flashes inside a mind exhausted and poisoned by neon-lit chaos.

Break the silence. Damn the dark, damn the light.

He tries to open his eyes, but his head feels like it is splitting into countless shards and every movement of even the smallest muscle in his body echoes through his skull with burning, vicious pain. He cannot move, despite all effort his arms refuse to lift and his legs refuse to cooperate: his own body betrays his mind and spirit. It is a truly horrifying feeling.

I can still hear you saying: you would never break the chain.

He no longer feels an alien presence in his head. Only a calm, pleasant and familiar emptiness of thoughts. A wind, vaguely resembling an ocean breeze, freely dances through his folds of mind, so warm and so familiar. Maybe the uninvited guest is simply hiding too well in the depths of his consciousness, but that can be dealt with later. As long as he hears the blurred, buttery tones of the electric guitar, he doesn't want to think about it.

Chain, keep us together. Runnin' in the shadow.

Something is holding him here, something is not letting him leave, as if someone grabbed his ankle and, breaking his own bones, drags him toward the surface of the water. Up and up, up and up, until he rises and greedily gasps for air smelling of seaweed and salt. The song in his head fades out, but unnaturally — not the way it was intended in the recording — as if someone is slowly turning down the speakers until only all-consuming silence remains. He expected to hear conversation, or someone's outrage that they were left without music, but an oppressive silence gathers around him. Not the quiet peaceful silence of a night forest, not the silence of a desert where there is no rustle of trees and grass, not the silence of a house at night where uneven floorboards occasionally creak, not the silence of a dark cinema hall when for a second before the intro everything seems to freeze, not the silence of an awkward pause when you both don't know what to say and just stare at each other listening to someone else's breathing. This silence implies only the absence of everything, as if there is endless emptiness stretching hundreds of thousands of miles in every direction. And everything around is dead, only he is still trying to breathe. Until he opens his eyes.